I Heard You
by Restless Imaginator
Summary: Moriarty is back. What will happen when the consulting detective meets the consulting criminal again on the roof of St. Bart's Hospital? Post Season 3 finale one-shot


**I fixed some typos but I probably didn't get them all. Thank you so much swimmy96 and CA Hawkins for the glowing reviews :) You guys inspire the struggling writer in me. **

**So, it's been awhile since I've posted anything. Actually, I just deleted all my other stories. Recently, I've been feeling a little sad about some things beyond my control so I thought to channel them into writing a Sherlock one-shot. This takes place post season 3. There is angst in this fic, so you've been warned. Please let me know what you think! I do not own Sherlock or any BBC property, simply my love for writing and my obsession with the show.**

He paced. It was very uncharacteristic of him. Sherlock never let his nerves get the better of him in such situations. Yet he paced across his flat, ruffling his hair here and there, tugging at the blue scarf entangled around his neck, and flicking his collar in agitation. He had been too distressed to remove his outer garments.

John watched him warily. It was obvious something was amiss, they had both heard the phone call. But he had assumed his best friend would only need to take a short trip inside his mind palace or make his usual deductions to figure out what to do next. There was a cup of tea that Mrs. Hudson had brought up for him to celebrate Sherlock's sudden and surprising return from his banishment. But it stood untouched on the scratched table in front of him, growing cold and surrendering its disappearing steam to the stagnant air around them.

"No, no, don't be stupid!" Sherlock hissed to himself, clenching his fist and squeezing his eyes shut in frustration, "come on, think!" He raised his fist to hover above his forehead in desperation and John could almost see the wheels turning at inhuman speeds. The extent of his abilities had never failed to amaze the doctor. No amount of schooling or time in Afghanistan could ever render him on the same level as the man that stood before him, pacing, pacing.

John took a tepid sip from the cup before him so Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be offended. It was rare enough as it was when she assumed housekeeping duties given her incessant denials. There was never much John could say when Sherlock was in such a state. Sometimes he could watch, but he couldn't bring himself to sit this time. He had come this close to almost losing him forever because they had pursued too far. No amount of persuading would bring him to that point again, to the risk of losing Sherlock. John pushed his tea away and stood up. He retrieved his jacket from the couch and slipped into the sleeves.

"I need some air," John announced, knowing Sherlock would not hear him this deep in a deduction. Before he could make it to the door, there were rapid creaks ascending the steps and Lestrade barged into the flat. The defective was the one man who never needed an invitation. Of course, Mycroft never had needed one either but usually his presence was not approved of by Sherlock and he would be gone shortly after a witty banter.

"Hello, John," Lestrade breathed. Apparently he had gotten here as quickly as he could given how winded he sounded. "Sherlock," he moved past John into the flat, "any developments?"

"Something, there has to be something," Sherlock muttered to himself.

"What's he going on about?" Lestrade turned his head slightly in John's direction but kept his eyes fixed on the man before him.

John sighed, "He's been like this for the past hour. The hell if I know." There was frustration laced in his voice. Moriarty had somehow managed to hack tellies and computers all over England. Sure, therein lied a problem as the consulting criminal was now afoot again in the streets of London. But there must have been something else. They had dealt with this exact same problems not two years before. Now, John was worried, but his emotions were justified. Every time he heard that name, James Moriarty, or saw his face, the only image that he could truly see was one of Sherlock falling, dying.

"I watched him," Sherlock said suddenly, addressing their questions but not their presence, "I saw him pull the trigger. His survival was not plausible unless by some miracle, he found a way to simulate a gun shot without the bullet. There would have had to have been some simultaneous release of blood for it to-"

"Wait," Lestrade stepped forward, "what do you mean, 'pull the trigger?'"

"Moriarty!" Sherlock finally snapped his gaze up to meet theirs, his steely eyes wild. "James Moriarty is dead! I saw him put a Beretta 92FS to his head and pull the trigger. It had been his way of trapping me into jumping. The hand gun he had used was chrome lined, possibly Italian made, so it would have been old, most likely released around 1975 which would mean no discreet way would have existed to tamper with the barrel. If he had faked his death, I would have seen the revisions made and known immediately. Yet I saw nothing, there's no way he could still be alive."

"There was no body." Lestrade frowned.

"What?" Sherlock blinked, recoiling slightly as if he'd been slapped.

"Are you sure Moriarty was there with you on the roof?" Lestrade asked.

"I am not crazy!" He snapped. "He was there!"

John looked between the two men. Greg visibly backed off. The doctor had seen his consulting detective tremble with fear of the hound he thought he saw, heard his voice thick with tears before jumping, but he had never seen him so enraged and terrified at the same time, so lost.

"I need to go," Sherlock said suddenly.

Reality snapped back into focus for John. "Nope. No. Absolutely not," he frowned.

"Go where?" Greg interjected. Of course, no one had filled him in yet on the phone call they had received shortly after Sherlock's return. The voice had been unrecognizable, wavering with fear. It had taken Sherlock only seconds to realize the speaker was simply a mask for whomever was threatening them, being made to speak at gun point.

Sherlock had pressed the mobile to his ear, fingers clenching white around the device as the person spoke. John had leapt up from his chair and careened closer to hear the faint voice on the other end. "- at St. Bart's Hospital. Your move Mr. Holmes." The line had cut off abruptly after but Sherlock hadn't removed the mobile from his ear. There had clearly been an ultimatum constructed and the location was the same place John's life had ended with Sherlock taking his - well, in a manner of speaking.

Now, the dark haired detective glared at John. "St. Bart's Hopsital," John answered Lestrade keeping his penetrating gaze fixed firmly on Sherlock in defiance. He would not surrender his friend back to the same building for Moriarty to do the job correctly this time.

"I'm not asking your permission." Sherlock retaliated. "This is nonnegotiable. If Moriarty is truly still alive, I need to be the one who finishes him."

"Then I'm coming with you," John said simply as if the answer was easy.

"No, you're not," Sherlock moved away toward the door, whipping off his scarf so that he could loop it more neatly.

"I'm not asking your permission."

Sherlock froze, stiffening on the spot. "Someone is going to die tonight, John. I won't let you put yourself in that kind of danger. Lestrade, notify your best men, but do not engage. If he truly is alive, he has a web of strings he can pull that will bring your world tumbling down. I need to figure out which of those strings he plans to pull before anything else transcends."

John gaped at him. How could he be so detached toward his involvement? They had always taken on cases together. Mindful, this may not have been a case, it was something John refused to let Sherlock face alone.

"I'll be in touch," Sherlock flipped his collar up in anticipation against the London wind.

Detective Lestrade looked as confused as ever and white as paper, but John was fuming. I'll be in touch?! Seriously! He stormed after him and made it down to the street in time to see Sherlock halting a motorcyclist. The man sat there, dazed, until Sherlock held out a badge and spoke commanding words to him.

John heard Lestrade stumble out behind him, shouting apologies to Mrs. Hudson before closing the door behind him. "Phone Anderson," he told him. He watched Sherlock don the man's helmet before swinging his leg over the motor bike, adjusting the strap. Pressing his lips into a thin line, John moved forward and slid onto the bike behind his friend.

Sherlock started but John cut him off, "This is nonnegotiable," he said harshly, "now drive before all of Baker St. sees me on the back of a bike with another man."

Something must have worked because Sherlock shot back, "Hold on," before flicking his wrist and revving the bike to life. They sped off into the wet night, leaving Lestrade standing bewildered on the curb of Baker St.

* * *

There were not many things that made John uncomfortable. It was one of the main reasons he had survived in the army. So many times, he had been faced with the prospect of death, yet never before had he felt so unnerved than he did right now, racing toward certain death with the one person who truly mattered to him in this world driving the bike. Cold, sharp water misted into his face and a stiff wind rattled his jacket.

London was huge, yet the ride seemed so short. Surely, they couldn't be here already. They pulled up to a curb and Sherlock let his foot down to support the bike before kicking the stand down and sliding off the seat. His thumb had already found its way to the helmet strap around his chin. John followed suit, removing the passenger helmet he had found.

Across the way, his eyes found the street corner he had stood at some two years ago. The image was still so sharply etched into his mind despite the time that had elapsed. Pain flared up as he remembered that final phone call, that helpless feeling, all the blood. Gritting his teeth, he shook his head to purge the thought.

After removing his helmet, he turned to follow Sherlock when he realized his friend had not moved. He almost ran right into him but teetered back. Sherlock reached his arms out to steady John but didn't remove them from his shoulders even after he was righted. "John," he spoke seriously.

John raised his eyebrows. "I need you listen very closely to me, can you do that, John?" He nodded once curtly. "I can't predict what will happen up there. I need to know you will be safe. Should something go wrong, I need you to save yourself. Do you understand?" Sherlock noticed John pause, faltering to agree. He could practically see the thoughts running through him as he processed his request.

There was no detectable waver in his voice, but John could tell he was terrified. That was enough to stop his retaliation and he closed his mouth, nodding again.

"Let's not let it get to that point, shall we?" John smiled grimly. Sherlock straightened up and began making his way into the hospital. They walked straight past the tired receptionists and made their way to the staircase. The lady at the phone must have had enough for one day and didn't bat an eye as they passed through the lobby.

Muted steps resonated in John's ears as he followed closely in Sherlock's footsteps. The two trudged up the stairs, John panting after a brisk Sherlock who had set himself into a stoic countenance. Emotions would be a weakness Moriarty could exploit if he let him, so he pushed them deeper inside himself, burying them with each step. The sound of John behind him kept him going, but it also reminded him of how vulnerable he still remained despite purging his emotions. Magnussen had been right, John was his pressure point. He would just have to trust that he could hold his own because, while presence may have been the chink in his armor, it was also his shield.

Finally, they reached the top of the hospital; Sherlock tentatively pushed open the heavy black door to a blacker night. A heavy wind pushed past them, carrying a cold mist that whipped their exposed skin. John pulled his jacket closer and felt the wind tug the bottom of his pants around his ankles like shackles.

The city lights flickered through the inky night and tried to beckon them down, away from the figure that stood at the far end of the roof, staring likewise at the far away faded glimmers of hope. How futile their efforts seemed so far away. John knew they were already trapped, and he would rather be trapped a million times over before he left Sherlock. The pressure of his gun against his hip reminded him of their hidden upper hand. There would be no hesitation to use it if it meant their survival.

'I need you to save yourself,' Sherlock's words tumbled in his mind. Did he expect him to run and leave him if the opportunity arose? 'Like hell,' John thought stubbornly.

"Did you miss me?" The figure said to the city that sprawled before them. The lights blinked helplessly in response, stuck behind a veil of dark London fog and sleet.

"I was starting to," Sherlock answered. He pulled out his own gun and pointed it at the man, his hand as steady as it had been that night at the pool.

"Curious," the man said, tilting his head to the side slightly before turning around, "how one could miss something they never knew?" His face was still majorly obscured by the shadows of night.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but caught himself, frowning in confusion. The man began to slowly move toward them and John immediately pulled out his gun and pointed it at him.

"Oh-ho!" The man put his hands up and stopped, "this must be Mr. Watson."

"Doctor," John growled, stepping next to his friend.

"My apologies, Dr. Watson," he cooed, "I find I am able to relate to such a mistake. Most people forget my own title."

John heard Sherlock breathe in realization. The way his lips parted indicated he found something amusing in the anagnorisis. "Professor."

The man resumed his pursuit toward them, moving closer to the light. "My brother was right about you, Mr. Holmes. You're skills are admirable." Light flooded his features and John stumbled back a step, his gun wavering. The man who looked back at them was, in fact, not Moriarty. Yet he was the spitting image of him in, say, about five years. The crazed gleam in his eyes was there, the dark hair, the sickening smirk. "Professor Moriarty," he bowed mockingly, the creepy patronizing gestures.

John shook himself back to a sturdier state and stepped back in place beside Sherlock. "My condolences about your brother," Sherlock spoke evenly.

"Those are misplaced, Mr. Holmes," he said disapprovingly, "there is naught to mourn about his passing." John wondered how it was possible that a man could be more sick than the last Moriarty. But every moment with his older brother answered that question. "His death was done willingly. You know that. It was planned. Everything was planned." John glanced sideways at Sherlock and saw his eyes narrow as he pointed his gun more deliberately.

"Would my pulling the trigger right now be planned?"

"No," Professor Moriarty frowned, "but I know you won't."

"What makes you so sure?" Sherlock knew the answer before he asked the question, but he realized the only way out would be to pretend to play right into his hands. A familiar red dot appeared on Sherlock's chest and over John's heart.

"You didn't think my baby brother learned all his tricks by himself, do you?" However, unlike the younger Moriarty, the gun men of this madman stepped out from behind their hiding places and stood next to their master. There were two. That was about five or six less than from the pool. It was manageable. All Sherlock would need to do would signal and they would each shoot one of the men and deal separately with Moriarty the senior. It was a game of numbers John understood. But then, the professor pulled out his own gun and pointed it at Sherlock. "You see, Mr. Holmes, unlike my brother, I don't mind getting my hands dirty since I know how to wash them properly. But my brother did make you a promise." He twisted his lips up, further mirroring his brother's mannerisms. Or maybe his brother had mirrored his.

'I'll _burn_ the heart out of you,' hissed a voice in John's memory. He shuddered. They were outnumbered now, so there would be no getting out alive. Slowly, he stepped in front of Sherlock, raising his own gun menacingly.

"John," Sherlock breathed in annoyance. There was something else there, shock? After all this time, Sherlock still couldn't understand how anyone would want to protect him. 'Daft sociopath,' John thought to himself.

"The loyalty of your dog never fails to surprise me," Professor Moriarty sneered. John didn't move, but only held his ground more firmly. "Shall I shoot him?"

Immediately, a light pressure on his arm brought him back, he realized Sherlock had rejoined his side. "Well, if you had taken better care, I would have heeded such threats. Given their emptiness, I would like to see you try."

"Uh," John twitched with concern.

"You would risk the life of your little pet to prove you're smart?"

"I'd risk mine," Sherlock said, stepping forward.

"Tell me," he prompted, stepping closer as well.

"You failed to remove the sticker from your pants indicating you were in a rush, too much of of a rush to clean up the edges. The creases on your jacket and the flatness of your hair tells me you've sitting for a long period of time, the passport in your pocket tells me plane, international commercial flight, most likely Dubai from the fabric of your tie. The gun in your hand is the exact same one your brother used to kill himself. He had only one bullet loaded into that gun. Given the fact that the last bullet was shattered in his skull, the hurried state of your appearance and the strict no-gun policy aboard aircrafts, that gun was not loaded when you acquired it and you haven't had the time to do so since. Thus, there is no real threat. Pull the trigger."

Professor Moriarty smiled and flexed his finger. "You sure?" He turned his head ever so slightly.

"Pull the trigger," Sherlock repeated. John closed his eyes, praying his friend was right. The gun clicked and John breathed again, opening his eyes anew to see the professor slipping the gun back into his pocket. The game of numbers was afoot again. They had a chance. They could get out of here alive.

He wouldn't meet their gaze, but there was still a twisted smile on his lips, curling over his teeth. "Good job, boys," he said, "you've passed this test. I think that's enough for one day, so I would leave before I decide to really pull the trigger."

John didn't need to be told twice. He kept his gun pointed at Professor Moriarty, but he began backing away, grabbing Sherlock's coat sleeve with his other hand. "Sherlock, for goodness sake." The door they had come through was blocked by Moriarty's henchmen, so they would need to take the fire escape. But John didn't care how they got out.

With another tug, Sherlock finally gave in and followed. It was so hard for him to walk away from this man like this, but he wouldn't risk John's life to prove he was clever enough to beat him. They both knew he could. The stakes were just too high. John had a family, a wife. He had vowed to protect them.

Finally, they had reached the ledge. John swallowed thickly,the thought of stepping onto the same ledge from which Sherlock had jumped plaguing his conscience. Despite the wrought iron railing, his hand still found its way to Sherlock's arm which he gripped with fervor. There would be no chance of losing him again to this cursed ledge or so help him he would go down too. The two descended the steps, letting Moriarty and his men pass out of sight.

Neither said a word. They descended the rest of the stairs in silence, John never relinquishing his iron grasp on Sherlock. It was only when they reached the bottom did John notice that Sherlock had likewise grabbed the fabric of his coat, holding on for dear life. He shivered when he realized how drenched he had become, soaked through every layer. Sherlock was no better but didn't let any sign of uncomfort show. His alabaster face was set on the way out, keeping John in tow.

They had descended into an alleyway. The motorcycle was in sight and John felt his chest untighten slightly. They had made it. But too soon had he let his relief in. "John," Sherlock whispered suddenly. "Don't. Move. Remember what I said."

John heard the click of a gun load and turned around slowly. Two other men stood waiting for them at the end of the alley, blocking the only way to the motorcycle. He felt his mouth drop a little in shock. How could he have thought they'd be so lucky. Of course Moriarty had men everywhere. He had a web. Just like his brother. And they were caught right in the middle.

"Hello, boys," Sherlock said, still facing John. His head was down but he raised it and spun around.

"Take one more step and I'll shoot," said the man on the right.

"Is he paying you?" Sherlock ignored him, taking another step. The man on the left fired a warning shot at his feet. That stopped him.

"Don't ask questions," he said.

"The cops will be here shortly," Sherlock said, eyeing the bullet hole in the asphalt.

That was the wrong thing to say. John saw the panic in the gunmen's eyes. He had seen the same look countless times in the army. A man cornered, with no out, would pull the trigger every time. He saw the waver in the right one's hand and the flex of his finger. Without thinking, John launched himself at Sherlock just as shots rang through the night. John felt a pressure knock the breath out of him as the two went tumbling out of the way. Adrenaline pumped through John's system and he and Sherlock were on their feet no sooner than they had fallen. Sherlock had managed to grab John's hand this time and was running at full speed, dragging his friend behind him.

Another shot tore through the night and John heard Sherlock gasp in pain. They rounded the corner and kept running. His hand flew to his shoulder but he never faltered. No, it was John. John felt his legs fail him. What was going on? He stumbled and fell, crying out in pain. Had it not been for Sherlock, he would have broken his nose. They were well out of the way of Moriarty's men, but also too far from the street, from their bike, from help.

"John, what-" Sherlock turned and grabbed his friend, placing him back on his feet. Warmth coursed over his hands and he paled. A deep crimson stain bloomed over John's coat, coming from the bullet wound in his stomach. "John!" His friend collapsed and Sherlock caught him before he could hit the ground.

"You-you've been shot, Sherlock," John sputtered, reaching to try and examine his shoulder that had now began to spout it's own flow of blood. But Sherlock was not concerned with his wound. He would be fine, no vital organs were struck and the pain all but vanished when he saw John's own wound. He waved John's hand away, instead, whipping off his scarf to use to put pressure to John's wound.

"John, John tell me what to do, I don't know what to do! How do I stop it?" There was a panic in his voice John had never heard before. But John knew that his wound would be fatal unless someone found them soon. He decided to put on his best face to remain as calm as possible, for Sherlock's sake.

Sherlock was at a loss. He didn't know what was happening. When he had been shot by Mary, he had been able to access his mind palace and figure out the best course of action for survival. But now, his mind palace was completely shut off. No thoughts of how to proceed entered his mind.

"Keep pressure," John said placing his hand over Sherlock's bloodied one. "You're doing everything just fine. Keep me breathing, and above all, keep me awake."

"Okay," Sherlock nodded, "okay." He pulled John closer to him so that he was sitting between his legs and his back was resting on his chest. He leaned back against the brick wall of the alley and pressed over his wound. With the alley sheltering them, the rain prevailed but the wind was less.

"And do-don't forget about taking care of your own-n." John panted, struggling. He knew Sherlock would be stubborn and refuse to take care of himself while he was in this state, but he had to know Sherlock would make it out alive if he wouldn't.

"John-"

"I won't be able to s-survive if you- pass out on-on me- from blood loss."

"Lestrade will be here soon. I'm not going anywhere." He grabbed John's hand and brought it up to his other to help keep pressure. "Stay with me, John." The sting of his own wound drifted in his mind, but he shot it down, thinking instead of how this even happened.

His stupid blogger, doctor, best friend, had jumped in front of his bullet. He knew they couldn't have been so lucky. "You fool," Sherlock said suddenly, "Why didn't you listen? You never listen. I asked you to save yourself!"

John was silent for a moment and Sherlock feared he had lost consciousness. But John spoke weakly, "I heard you." Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. "By saving- you," he continued, "I saved my-myself."

"Why, why would you do that?" He asked, angrily blinking tears away.

"Because- because you're an-n idiot," John said. Sherlock could hear the smile on his face as he spoke those words.

John coughed and blood trickled from his mouth. He knew what that meant and, all of a sudden, he was scared, not for himself, but for Sherlock. He felt the rise and fall of his chest and tried to focus on that, attempting to match his own breathing to Sherlock's. A hum resonated as he spoke.

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock managed. John wanted to kick him. Did he really believe this was his fault? He chose this. "Is this what it felt like?" He asked. "Is this what it felt like when you thought I had left you?"

John had been dosing off, struggling to keep his eyes open, but this jolted him. "Yes," he said. "It hurt- like hell." But he was so tired. It was becoming increasingly hard to keep his eyes open and they drifted shut.

"No. No! John!" Sherlock shook him desperately. He could hear the sirens in the distance. Someone had finally sent for help after they heard the gun shots. But Lestrade should have already been here. What was taking them so long?

"John! Wake up, John! You have to keep your eyes open! Keep your eyes fixed on me!"

His eyes opened groggily and his breathing was no longer short, gasping breaths, rather long, rattling rasps. Blood in the lungs. Sherlock felt a flitting moment of his mind palace and he tried to catch it before it left him. Too late, always too late. John leaned weakly against him. The blood was leaving him more slowly now. But the amount on his clothes, on his shaking hands, was too much.

Sherlock was panicking, he didn't need to make deductions to know John was dying. "You- you once spoke to me- well, my grave. And- you asked me things and I heard you. I listened. I answered you. So I- I want to try it now." Sherlock swallowed thickly, hugging John's frail body closer to him. He was turning colder, losing color. He kept going, "you were the only one, the only person I've ever met who- who saw something other than a freak. You were my heart when I forgot mine and- and you gave me hope when I was lost. I was so alone and I owe you so much. So- please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, John, for me. Don't- die. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this... I'll be lost without my blogger."

"I- I heard you," John said again. The sirens were growing louder. Sherlock bit his lip, smiling sadly as he remembered that moment in 221B with John. When he looked down again, John's eyes had closed.

"John," he said. No answer. "John!" He shook him, but he remained limp. "No, JOHN! Open your eyes! Look at me, John!" Sherlock felt himself break. The tears finally spilled over his eyes and he buried his head in John's neck. "I'm lost without you. Come back- I- I need you."

This was how the paramedics found him, hugging a cold Dr. Watson to his chest, crying tears onto his paled skin, hair matted to his face from the rain. They tried to pull John away, to treat his shoulder, but Sherlock wouldn't let go and directed all and any help they tried to give him to help John instead. Eventually, they took them both into the ambulance. They got him to relinquish all his hold on the doctor except their hands, which he refused to let go of. Sherlock wasn't sure when, but he was stuck with a sedative and he slipped out of consciousness, clinging till the last spot of energy he had to his Watson's hand.

**I'll let you finish the story. Thanks for reading! Reviews make me happy :)**


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